


Eighth Pulse

by Azzandra



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Edelgard has the Divine Pulse, Fire Emblem: Three Houses Black Eagles Route Spoilers, Gen, as if Edelgard's whole situation wasn't bad already
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-07
Updated: 2020-04-07
Packaged: 2021-03-01 19:14:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 876
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23532169
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Azzandra/pseuds/Azzandra
Summary: The Crest of Flames grants Edelgard the Divine Pulse--but it's a power that must be cultivated.
Relationships: Edelgard von Hresvelg & Hubert von Vestra
Comments: 13
Kudos: 73





	Eighth Pulse

"The container is only a visual aid," the chalk-faced mage tells her.

He tips the vase over, it lands with a crash, pieces scattering across the floor.

"Begin," he says. "First Pulse."

Edelgard does so; the world inverts, time freezes and expands out of her, then pops like a bubble. The vase is back on the dais, intact.

"Very good," the mage says, but it doesn't sound like praise. He says it with the air of a man looking out the window and remarking the weather is favorable for the crops to grow. He tips the vase over again.

It shatters. The gold leaf design is broken along new lines. Edelgard watches closely to observe each time whether the vase breaks along the same lines, and notices tiny differences, glaring similarities. There is one shatterline that curves nearly parallel to the edge of one of the leaves. Perhaps it is a weakness in the material, some old imperceptible crack or some flaw during the vase's manufacturing process.

"Second Pulse."

The vase's pieces gather up together, glue into one, the vase returns on top of the dais. There's no visible crack, though Edelgard thinks she is looking at the precise spot along which the vase usually shatters.

Crack. This time one of the curved handles of the vase does not break in two, instead skidding along the floor in a single piece. Had the mage pushed it a bit differently than usual?

"Third Pulse."

The vase returns. It is intact. It carries no memory of being in pieces.

Crack.

"Fourth Pulse."

The vase returns. Edelgard is watching a point on the wall beyond, already bored with this task. 

Crack. Edelgard doesn't see if the vase shatters in any new, interesting ways.

"Fifth Pulse."

Edelgard obeys.

Crack. The sound makes something throb inside her own skull, like sympathy. How many times can an object crack without remaining broken?

"Sixth Pulse."

The vase returns. It isn't sympathy, it's strain. She feels it like her scalp is becoming too small for her skull, a throbbing pull of pain when she blinks.

Crack.

"Seventh Pulse."

This time, the Pulse pops like heatstroke behind her eyes.

Crack.

"Eighth Pulse."

A headache burns like fire when she tries. She feels the Pulse swell inside, the power gather up, but it bursts like a sad little soap bubble before it can expand outwards from her and affect reality.

"Eighth Pulse," the mage repeats, impatient.

"I don't have any more," Edelgard replies, trying not to sound petulant. But he should know this. Seven Pulses is all she has had for the past few tests.

The mage looks at the paper in his hand.

"My projections show you should be capable of one more by now," the mage replied. "Eighth Pulse."

"I am not a dog, I won't perform a trick just because you shout out a command," Edelgard replies. It is the Emperor inside her, sparking to life from the banked fires of her indignation.

The mage looks at her, cold eyes, face impassive and unimpressed.

"You merely require additional motivation," he replies, and looks over Edelgard's shoulder instead. "You. Servitor. Come here."

Edelgard's jaw clenches, and she turns her head to see Hubert behind her, always in her shadow, even if she knows there is no protection for him in it. He catches her eye, nods infinitesimally, steps forward without fear. When he passes Edelgard, _she_ feels fear; she does not want him anywhere near the mage.

"You will help with this exercise," the mage says.

"Whatever Lady Edelgard wishes," Hubert replies, his tone edging too much into sarcasm.

The single flash of annoyance on the mage's face is, for a split second, gratifying.

Then blood splashes against Edelgard's legs, soaking through her stockings, and it takes her a few seconds to realize it is Hubert's.

"Eighth Pulse," the mage repeats. The vase sits on top of the dais, intact but for a single stray droplet of blood sliding down its side.

Edelgard's heart thumps in her chest. Fire throbs in her head. The Pulse swells, scorching, acidic like bile, and she pushes, pushes, pushes, like a heaving stomach trying to remove poisoned food. Hubert is not dead. Hubert is not dead. Hubert is not dead--it pounds against the inside of her skull until she makes it true again.

"Eighth Pulse," the mage repeats.

The world inverts, it burns, but it inverts. Edelgard's stockings are no longer drenched in blood. Hubert is standing behind her. 

The mage smirks.

"There," he says, and jots something down. "I knew you could do it. Proper motivation, as I said."

Now losing interest, the mage leaves; warps away to his notes and his experiments.

Edelgard falls to her knees, her stomach heaving in truth. She retches up nothing but bile. She shakes, and her eyes burn. The headache throbs, fully unleashed now.

Hands pull her hair back, a palm settles on the back of her neck, cold and callused. 

Whispers in her ear.

"I will kill them for you," Hubert promises, speaking as though this is mere fact; a man looking out the window, and remarking the weather will be favorable to crops this year. "I will kill them all."

'Proper motivation,' Edelgard thinks, nonsensically, in response.


End file.
